Prisca is the name my mother gave me, Munkeni is my father’s name, Fury is the name I chose. The country where I was born is not my own, the state where I grew up has disappeared, the nation of my passport barely exists.
What remains is my culture, whose memory has been weakened by the upheavals of history, and whose survival depends on only a handful of people, an oral tradition whose breath is dwindling. No doubt this is the breeding ground of my art…” – this propensity to want to create a dialogue between frozen moments, to prolong their existence to infinity, to force them to speak in an environment saturated with elements and lights. Over time, objects, places or characters through which our identity is forged dissipate, mutating into memories with diaphanous shapes. The weight of their meaning, the frustrations or pride generated are slowly buried in our daily lives, on the brink of oblivion. And memory, stuck in this daily life, loses the thread: why we cry, why we love, why we live… An ordinary route, a traced path, a marked route. Zairean, born in Brussels in 1981, grew up in Kinshasa. I branched off… Johannesburg where my art blossomed. Then Paris, the explosion.
